


Good Morning

by TheHeavyMetalNerd



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, Post-Sburb, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:58:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3726232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHeavyMetalNerd/pseuds/TheHeavyMetalNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The best part of waking up is finding your father alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Morning

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be a longer work I never got around to finishing and lost interest in, but I felt that this opening bit deserved to be published, if nothing else.

A man stands in his kitchen. Though today is not his birthday, it is only today he will be given a name.  
  
**> Enter name.**

_Dad_

'Dad' is a title, not a name, although many people, most notably those of the younger generation, seem to consider them one and the same.  
  
** >Try again. **

_Dadbert_

Getting closer…

**> One more time.**  
  
_Samuel Egbert_

Much better! Now, as stated before, your name is Samuel Egbert, and you are an EXTREMELY PROUD FATHER. Your kitchen is littered with various BAKING UTENSILS and you are hard at work preparing a wide variety of PASTRIES.

Your SON is still upstairs sound asleep, but will wake soon. Hopefully now that he and his FRIENDS have finished that blasted GAME he will have overcome his frankly unnatural HATRED for BAKED CONFECTIONS.   
  
(Secretly you know this to be highly unlikely, but after being MURDERED by a DOG wearing a HAT you’re rather shaken, and the familiar routine of following a recipe is comforting.)   
  
A timer dings, snapping you out of your reverie. Donning a pair of oven mitts, you extract a cherry pie from the oven as the sound of a COMMOTION comes from upstairs. It would seem your son is awake.   
  
You carefully place the pie onto a cooling rack, and remove your APRON as the sounds from upstairs shift into a rumble not unlike that of rolling thunder, meaning your son is on his way down. From the number of voices, it would seem he’d brought a few of his friends from the game back home with him. You hope you baked enough cakes.   
  
Draping your apron over the back of a chair relatively free from flour, you retrieve your pipe from next to the sink and turn to face the entrance to the kitchen just as your son appears in the doorway, out of breath and still in his blue PAJAMAS.   
  
You barely have time to tell him good morning and tell him how extremely proud you are of him before he tackles you in a frantic hug, nearly bowling you over, TEARS OF JOY streaming down his face. You wrap your arms around your son, taking in a deep, shuddering breath yourself.

Your shirt and tie are soaked from your son’s tears and are going to need a THOROUGH CLEANING and a FRESH STARCH later, but you don’t care in the slightest. You’re alive, and your son is safe. For the time being, nothing else matters.


End file.
